I thought her hands were holy
And then I kissed an angel.

The most groundbreaking moments in my life have mostly been the minute connections I have made with other mortals, the ones that made me feel small while making my heart feel like it was growing inside of my tiny chest, like my organs were running around, making way, like my rib cage disconnected, tried to move, and eventually would break, like my veins were stems of flowers, and I could see the petals growing in the pinks of cheeks and across my pale chest, I felt the stitches, long gone now, from my twenty year old scar would rip my torso open right down the center and expose the heart inside, honest.

But my heart doesn't swell the way it used to, and my rib cage fells like its sinking in on itself, like the my organs are running and squeezing themselves into dark corners to avoid being attacked by the shards of ivory.

When I look into the eyes of a girl I know I'd have been enamored by, if I had met her at an earlier time, I only see the glare in her glasses. I sigh at her misfortunes but check the clock, noticing how slowly time passes
when you're unable to understand someone
looking at their palms, the way their fingers move,
wondering why my mind is feeling so numb...
My heart feels like an empty rim, missing the face of the drum.

I have not been to the cardiologist in six years,
I'm afraid he will tell me the stickers on my skin told him my secret,
when I smile they see my skeleton,
when I sing they see my gums,
that's why I listen with my mouth closed and protect the illusion with a hum.

I have not flossed for a long time either, afraid they will find the plaque in the trash, pull it out and reveal inside this furnace is only ash.

never the reality of it
not the way it moves or twitches or yawns or blinks or longs to hold hands or scratch backs
maybe the way it moans and arches, maybe
not the way it sings or paints or makes coffee or plays with it's niece or hugs its mother
the way it stays quiet and still when discontent, maybe
the way it makes money, maybe
the way every motion is to please you, maybe

hand on your shoulders
dark curls get caught in my fingers
eye contact used to make me nervous
in the dark it makes me smile
want to pluck the strings of your soul
find out what you’re made of
what you sound like
in the darkness
swaying to the voices
swirling in the ballroom
singing me to sleep

Where do you go when you can't go home and you don't know the backroads well enough to absentmindedly navigate your way out of your mind?
Can someone show me a map with a route that has the most frequent red lights and stop signs?
What does it mean when it aches to see that every green light you approach won't turn gold?
How does it feel to loathe the silence between you and yourself?
It feels like this.
It feels like flipping an hour glass over and over but the sand is stuck to the top
Like the digital clock on the dash is always seventeen minutes faster at each tick and turn of the tiny green digits
Like the four note church bell chimes at the cemetery forever
Like the CD is scratched and keeps skipping but it only repeats the same line over and over

Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you

Like the CD is 80 minutes of the same song straight
Like everyone sings about home or going there or asking to be taken there or defining what it is to them but you still can't find where it is for you.


Like the gas tank is full but the battery is dead
Like the sharp curves of the asphalt just take you in circles and you can't find the exit to the roundabout
Like there are no curves and the road goes on forever and all you get are green lights blinding you but all you can ******* see is red

It all started with a dream dictionary, and then a mixtape, and then attendance recovery because neither of us ever went to school.
And then we thought it ended with a graduation cap.
we tried so many times but it never worked out for some reason. I thought the universe must have been conspiring against me…
But somehow perhaps the universe ended up on my side, and she gave me you.
You've given me a long life in the short period of time we've been together and it's been one hell of an adventure.
I'm not sure how it really will end.
Or if the universe really is on my side. If not, at least she'll be against US this time. Because I don't belong in a world where I don't end up with you, and I'm so glad we live in the one where we do.
It's been a dream.

what I haven't been trying to say is that I love you but, but... BUT
but I see my parents in us and a life as an addict out of love just doesn't appeal to me after having to live it for as long as I have lived it and i don't ever want to relive that or the anger that arose when the high was gone and couldn't get got or the feeling of inferiority to the inspiration from inhalations or the rust on the prison cell steel or the carpet petting your cheek or the sound of three girls finally wearing big girl ******* and their daddies Guns N Roses and Van Halen and Eagles tees and yellow bangs and dark curls and strawberry blonde strands down to their knees wondering why mommy won't wake up on the living room sofa or what caused the ****** noses of the "pill ****** down the street" I don't want dangerous dealers, the downers or the rush or the teen riding to dallas alone on a bus
these are things I've seen and don't care to re-see
so what i'm trying to say is i love you but i see my parents in us

I don't drink white chocolate + caramel lattes, but tonight, I did.
And I put hella whipped cream on it like you asked
and I cried with each swirl: the cup, the espresso inside the cup, the little tulip I made from whole milk, the spiral handled spoon, the can of whipped cream, a fluffy spiral staircase right into the feels.
I took two sips and set it down because there was work to do and smiles to fake but I won't pretend I didn't microwave it later and finish it to the last drop because I knew you would
and I just wanted to pretend that you were there at that counter, caring about every twirl I made behind the bar, like a captain of the ship, as you wrote poetry in bars with every steamy sip.
But you weren't and I'll learn that no matter how hard I try, I just can't do white chocolate + caramel lattes.
You're the only way I want to drink anything these days.
But that's the only way you'll drink it.

I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you, and I’ll never be able to, I’ll never deserve you. But maybe I can make you forget all of the bad **** that I’ve done to hurt you. I wish my love wasn’t so toxic. I wish it was still the love that could make flowers grow. I’ll spend my whole life strengthening my green thumb.

"Hand-holding-*****."
is it still considered an alliteration if the words sound the same but actually start with different letters?
is it still an abomination if the others didn't mean a ******* thing?

if rubbing my thumbs across his only proved that I was capable of maintaining a relationship with someone for five years
- a sort of reward of comfort.

if the second time was because I was in liberty with
a stranger when it came to emotions and thoughts
but not when it came to exploring and touch
and only because I felt like it fit the mood
and only because I was missing your fingers and his felt close enough

if the third was purely because it was cold and lonely in the cemetery
and for once I craved romance rather than cringed from it
(even though gravitating towards graveyards is a cynical form of it)
but then I shied away from his lips
and we haven't really spoken much since.

does that count?
Maybe so, but I've never been a wishful thinker.
I think your fingers are the only ones that ever
truly touched me.
That I could ever really feel.
That ever made me feel.
I think I want your hands in mine,
but I also really like the feeling of
passing joints between foreign palms

I like heading to liberty
I like half-decade-long friendships
I like headstone letters

I like having a hand to hold.
Who can blame me for filling empty holes
when yours are no longer home?

"Do you remember when you used to love me?"
"Of course, I never stopped."
"I'm so happy to see you...I'm so happy you're here...I'm so happy to see you."
Hunched over pools of pink on the concrete I used a bar napkin to dab your tears.

You looked up at me on the dark street and I saw a lamb in those droopy eyes.
You looked up at me from white sheets and I saw Vegas in your smile.

The stars
The smoke
The silhouettes of the trees
The fog floating just above the ground
Making suburban houses on the horizon look like the pyramids in the distance
The soft snores from the now sleeping once silently staring boy laying on the grass beside me
I don't want to wake his slumber
He seems at peace and I find comfort in the outside sounds of his dreams and the crispness of the way his arm brushes the dirt when he turns and how the position of body resembles a corpse with crossed ankles and fingers draped over his chest
It's dark but I can make out the rise and fall of his breaths
It's getting cooler and the crickets chirp louder and the songs on my playlist start and end and start again
And it's so serene
It's so serene.

I wonder how long the stars captivated him before they serenaded him with twinkling lullabies
I wonder how he interpreted my silence or if he noticed it
I wonder if he's the type to notice things like that
I like to think he is.
One of those people who can lay next to you in the grass and look up at the stars and communicate the contentedness silently
I wonder if he felt it
I wonder if he heard my harmonies


I wonder how warm your bed is right now.
I wonder if you're happy you've got all that empty space to stretch your limbs like a starfish on the sheets.
I wonder if you snore.
I wonder what our pillow talk would sound like right now.
I wonder if we'd even pillow talk right now.


I wonder what time the sun rises this morning.
It must be just a few hours away.
I wonder if you're still awake.

I wonder where it goes when you're not surrounded by it.

tonight's one of those nights where I'd like to sit on a rooftop and smoke cigarettes and speak poetically with strangers

except I never do because I'm afraid of climbing onto roofs because you never know if you might fall through
and don't worry I don't actually talk to strangers either,
each new pair of eyes like snakes when you roll the dice...
and of course I don't smoke cigarettes, I stopped when my niece found out and it crushed her innocent little view of me in her world,

but it just seems like the thing to do in times like those, don't it?

He called me his little orchid, and I pictured him admiring me, all of my colors and twists, my petals and my stem, exclaiming "look at this one! look how beautiful it is! look at the inside, do you see how amazing that is?" and I smiled and swooned and swayed like the little orchids would in the wind and I blushed so hard you'd think I lost my chlorophyll, or that summer was coming to an end, and I wanted to sing like an orchestra of brass and wood winds because the thought of you thinking of me and still seeing me as precious as a flower after all these winters we've seen makes my heart beat and plucks my strings.
I want you to know that you're still sun, my air, my water, and the soil that my roots are planted in. Even in the winter, I only think of the times you shone brightest and eagerly wait for you to smile again.
I know it feels like winter for you right now, but it's spring baby, and I'm growing!
I'm not a bean stalk, I can't take you to the top, but I'm your little orchid, and hopefully,
you'll look over at the one on your window sill and smile knowing that some part of me is growing right there next to you, breathing and taking in everything you're giving me.

So when you're bored, water me, and talk to me, and it might help you breathe a little lighter too.

From one flower to another, I love you.

self-deprecating thoughts have not plagued me for some time now
but i feel them creeping up on me like spiders in the night
like crying in front of you for the first time in ages and not being able to stop
like really crying, the tears burning as they rolled down my cheeks
and I couldn't tell you why and you just looked at me puzzled
like the realization that I didn't want you on top of me and you slowly retreating
and i couldn't tell you why and i just looked at you puzzled

I don't deserve you or your kindness or your kisses
You don't deserve my sharp passive aggressive remarks or reminders
You deserve a second of breath and I don't deserve the seconds you give to me

Nothing I write is pretty anymore.
The adjectives I used to describe you were only beautiful because you were in them. Ethereal means nothing without your laughter sound tracking the definition. Eloquence doesn't sound nearly as charismatic without the wink of your lashes backing it up. I always knew Eternity was ******* but you made it seem possible...
Today I found out the girl in my art class was named Elizabeth and it meant nothing because she wasn't you.

dreams of tangled limbs and locked lips
soft heartbeats and fingertips
a foreign feeling, and perspective too
I am more than happy to have found you.
Our souls are connected, don't you see?
I have to know, do you dream of me?

sleep comes most easily with draped limbs like closed curtains
with no room for sunlight to leak through
it is dark here, yes, but the sun has burnt out all the while
I was dreaming of no longer being a demanding lover

Tonight I will kneel down and pray
for four leaf clovers to plant
myself in a windy city,
and fear that in the sea of tiny greens,
my little fingers will fumble upon one,
and wash me away from the level below it.

You see, I want more than anything to leave,
but I'm used to the low altitude,
got water in my lungs and I'm just so scared
that up there, there's just too much air.

I miss the poetry of it all
not just reading it, of course that too,
but feeling it, the romance of a paper cut from the opening of a bottle of red wine called "california dreams"
showering and the light switch turning off, a thoughtful gesture, sending waves of comfort and oblivion
watching hands conducting folk songs  in the front seat
laying on roof tops, recreating ideas from Tar Beach
I'm yearning for that youthful prose I used to write about all the time
feels like ages ago

because my leg won't stop bouncing repeatedly against the chair
because my thoughts revert back to the memory of your touch
every
three
seconds
like closing my eyes and tapping my heels together
because you never understood what i meant when i told you
that there wasn't a reason as to why I grew anxious in
your presence why my breaths shortened or my my
jaw tightened why my muscles ached and my head
throbbed and pounded and my cheeks turned scarlet
why i felt like you were water and my skin melted when you brushed it
i was not blushing due to your charm although i do that too
i was not nervous and biting my nails because you thought i was cute
although im not even sure if that's true

sometimes i get freaked out and its not because of you
even if you wish that were the case not everything,
not bicycles or cows
not the world or my nerves
revolves around you
or your pinky finger
only my hormones head and heart do
because
there's no place like home
there's no place like home
there's no place like him

How do you throw the good away at the chance of something better?
What if the grass is filled with snakes and glass on the otherside?
What if I'm scared?
What if the risk ends up not being worth it?
What if what is good is good enough?

You said that you weren't as weak as I am.
weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak
IF WEAK IS FORGIVING PEOPLE FOR BREAKING MY HEART AND HAVING THE COMPOSURE TO NOT DISREGARD OTHERS AS HUMAN BEINGS FOR ******* UP OR ******* MY BOYFRIEND THEN YOU ARE LUCKY THAT I AM WEAK. IF WEAK IS LOVING MY FATHER DESPITE THE ADDICTION AND MY MOTHER DESPITE THE PROMISCUITY AND BOTH DESPITE THEIR BROKEN PROMISES THEN I WANT TO BE WEAK.
WHY WOULD I EVER WANT TO BE STRONG?
Weak is peaceful and weak is kind and if strength is measured by the ability to cut people out of your life with no remorse then I feel terribly sorry for the strong people in the world.
Strength is sad and lonely and begrudging
and tight muscles and hard exteriors and quick breaths.
Weakness can be the long drawn out exhale that comes before death
as long as I've got someone holding my hand in the hospital bed...

"Does this happen often?"
"Yeah, it has been lately. She's probably just on drugs again."
"You think she's on drugs?"
"I mean, just pills, but yeah, probably."
"I thought pills made you chill."
"Not when you don't have them."

you had multiple options, at first there were so many open doors in front of you, but the longer you waited, the more started closing, until only one was left open in front of you, so reluctantly, you walked in, better than being stuck out there alone, with only a hint of what could be lying behind the door you stepped into.
I understand.
If you happen to get cabin fever, I hope you know that the door isn't locked. And there is no water outside, keeping you here.
If you need to get a breath of fresh air, I hope you know that I will smile with each inhale if you are happier there.

Most nights I do not have to suffer the silence of showers in solitude
I am usually blessed with the sensation of the feeling of my fingers catching the puddles of water
drop by drop
that roll off of your torso,
like the hungry in a dumpster
like a lamb and a lion
like an 8 year old trying to grasp the difference between a metaphor and a smilie
like searching for the last dandelion of the season
eager and starving for it

I battle the drops spilling into my eyes to meet your grimace, teeth bared and eyes shut tight, as they win the war on your front, cascading down your lashes and curls and nose and jawline.
Even in this state, you look delicate and beautiful.
I've always said you were a work of art, a painting, a statue.
Like a sculpture on a frieze on the Parthenon. Or at least a roman marble copy.
Or at least you make me look at you that way.
I always slyly look up in hopes that you're returning the gaze when I'm not looking...
That's when I lose the war, with drops cascading down my lashes, and my curls, and my nose and collar bones.

Tonight your chest was bare and maybe you finally conquered the water
But tonight I'm showering with the lights off, under the distortion of the glow of pink lava ebbing and flowing from behind the curtains and I don't care if I'm alone or standing in an army of soldiers
I don't care if I win or lose
I'll let the stream rush over the contours of my face and mold it until it becomes a grimace or agonized or etched into wry
like it once did the very ground I walk upon and I'll let the steam fog the mirrors and leave dew drops on my shoulders until my bare chest turns scarlet and I crawl into the covers forced into silence

the red slashes on your hips intersected at angles to form letters
of words that you thought were worthy of being sliced into your skin
but you're nothing close to disgusting
you're beautiful and captivating and kind
and I know you're afraid that I will love you less
when I see you at your worst but I promise
that I will wait for you when you take hours to feel pretty, even though I think you already are
and I will still kiss you when you have the smell of onions on your breath
and I will still love you with blood rushing down your legs because you hate yourself and you can't do anything right
and I will still think you're perfect when the scale reads higher than it did last Wednesday
and I will still comfort you when you scream at night because of the hauntings that come with closed eye lids and fading consciousness
and I will still hold you when you're crying so hard that you can't speak.
I hope that I am never the cause for why you consider these things
to be flaws (and I know that I cannot stitch you up or save you with love) but I hope that I can help the insecurities fade, like the scars on your hips.

you may hear both sides of a story
but you believe the side of the one you love
and my dear, you've loved each chapter.
and as much as you might wish
you'd never read those words,
they still ring inside of you
but you skipped the epilogue,
which confessed that both sides are true;
it is possible that the hero is also the villain,
and the angel also the demon,
and the sweetest caramel skin masochistic,
and the ivory wristed sadistic.
And the fire that had engulfed them both at one time
was the reader, with much to learn.
Because with pleasure came so much pain,
caused by each of us to the other,
and for that I almost wish I never touched her,
but I am more than thankful that a part of her touched me,
for I too once was just a reader, with much to learn.
And I read of a flower who cracked the strongest concrete,
I was afraid that I might have killed it,
so I left the bud there, to blossom under another's water and sunlight,
for I have much to learn on the art of forgiveness of others and oneself and the art of suffering in silence.
Let her teach you something. Let her whisper oxygenated truths into your ear and believe that it is all true, because it is, to her and to me and to you.

Rip out my ribs with your teeth and then heal the wound with your lips because your kisses reseal the opening that vulnerability unzips.
I'll light my biggest fears on fire and lay them at your feet and watch you put out the flames only to sweep up the ashes and pour them down my smoke filled throat. And I'll gaze for hours in a trance as the blazing dance and scarlet hues mesmerize me until I'm warm inside and numb in a daze of blues.
It seems I'm only capable of flattering those flowing fingers that bend my bones rather than ridiculing the way they crush my decayed carcass.

This morning I watched a tiny baby bird take its last little breath, his chest puff out and then settle, his feathers lay flat and his head tilted back and his feet curled up underneath himself
a fatal game of cat and mouse, and the mouse chirped from under the kitchen table and with every yell the clench of the felines jaw tightened and if I could bring anyone back from the dead, it would be that little bird.
so soft and vulnerable, sleeping black and white in my pale palms.
I know its in his nature to hunt, but its in my nature to love, and this bird was so worthy, worthy of flying and seeing the sky and finding worms and maybe in the mornings he would have sang me awake and come to perch on my bird feeder, but war is an age old tale that continues on and nature has a way of being cruel
I can't stop picturing his little body, his tiny heart that probably loved as much as a baby bird could
I can't stop creating metaphors out of this scenario
where sometimes i'm the baby bird, and sometimes, i'm the cat.
and I hope that my foolish games and tendency to play never takes away the opportunity for happiness from anyone
I never want to be the cat, but I also never want to be the baby bird.
But I'll never want to be happy off the backs of another, and that's enough to make me choose the bird if the tables were turned.

Eleven months later, I use a pink highlighter to transform the scarred "ew" on your thigh into "beautiful" and God I still wish I could transform it in your mind as well.

People often make themselves feel better in times of despair by quoting that there must be darkness to see the light.
I suppose I see things a little differently, without darkness, I have nothing.
And by that I mean that by ridding my life of negative influences and hostility, I have realized that I have nothing left.
I am an empty carcass, cracked down the spine with no light inside to leak out into the black room.
I am looking to replace the bulbs in my organs if I can find the right ones, but I don't know the difference between halogen and fluorescent and the sparks in my brain are starting to dull as well, there are also cracks in my skull, but that's not the only way I can tell..

So,
CLASSIFIED ADS:
- looking for a bulb that might fit, please call if you're interested
please call..

I should have showed you love when I had you.

despite what you may think
this soul is still janglin
danglin
on the edge
of running towards your closed palms
when I know they will not open for me
I know you'll leave me hangin
or at least I hope you will

Things are changing for me, although the seasons this year seemed to not have.
The city of New Orleans will soon have my heart wandering in her streets, and I'll be miles away trying to determine where they lead.
My mistakes are catching up with me and I'll be forced to face the consequences I once always seemed to retread from.
I'm unsure of which the way the wind is blowing, I could never use my thumb to tell,
but I hope it's in the uplifting direction,
dancing in women's skirts, playing leap frog with the leaves, rolling through the sails of some small ship floating out at sea, humming in the giant chimes of city park's oak tree.

I just hope that when you leave, you take the wind inside my soul and carry it into spring.

why would you bother asking if i'd like you to stay when you know you're going to leave anyway?
you give me the illusion of choice you so often complain about in the outside world.
why do you pretend eagerness at helping me when I never asked for it, but then refuse to give it when I do?

be the change you wish to see
and let my mind rest independently.

I told myself I wouldn't cry the second time because I already accepted the fact that you would leave again.
But today I cried when I turned off my street and saw the sunset more beautiful than I'd ever seen, and again when I was ordering a sandwich in the jimmy johns drivethru because you hate jimmy johns but you ate it because you knew how much I loved it and again when I non-accidentally found your note that you told me to burn that I never burned and again when I pulled into the Pjs driveway just because. And again on the way home because I realized I've never had one healthy romantic relationship. And again when I walked inside my house and saw my sister sleeping on the couch because she's leaving for Texas tomorrow and because that's the place I sleep when I'm at home so that I never have to sleep in my bed alone. But tonight she's got on my sweatpants and she's using my blanket and she's sleeping on my couch and I can't stop because I'm so lonely and I wish you cared for just one second, but she's probably sitting on my side of your bed and listening to all your high thoughts and I'll have to be okay with that from now on, because I already knew you would leave the second you decided to stay. And I already know you'll leave even though you haven't admitted it to me.
I just wish you knew how much you meant to me. How much it breaks my heart to see you unhappy with me. But I won't say anything and neither will you because communication has never been our thing. And all we are is just "a thing," so whatever, right?

I was a coward my whole life.
Maybe I'll make up for it with bravery in ending it.

It all starts to get a little heavy the longer you hold it.
I'd like to set some things down, free my hands.
Little by little.
Trivial first, then the troubles.

He wore a name tag, which just so happened to rhyme with mine, and after handing him his coffee, he asked what it was.
What compels a stranger to ask for your name?


I feel so vulnerable with my hair pulled up
Exposed..
Like people are peaking at the back of my earlobes through the blinds and I can feel the warmth setting on the nape of my neck like the sun shining through them
I want to wrap my curls around myself and hide..
Fade..



Did you hear the one about the school teacher who won the sweepstakes to be on the space shuttle Challenger, the one that exploded seventy three seconds after take off and disintegrated, littering the ocean with built up promises and reminders, palms holding faces whispering
"don't let fear hold ya back"




Every January people pray that this year, this year!, will be better than the last, and I feel good admitting that none of mine will ever be as bad as the year the girl broke my heart, my parents broke up, and my first semester of college left me broke. Rock bottom was eighteen years old and wishing they would stop coming.





I'm know you still have fantasies about the girl with eyes the color of the plants she nurtures, how maybe she was the one that got away, how you wish she still wrote to you. It's getting easier to brush off as the time grows. I guess everyone has that person, the idea of them never leaves your heart even if the opportunity has.






I have twenty one voicemails I haven't yet listened to and I'm just - not.
I know somewhere at the very bottom, your voice is waiting for me, asking questions you never really cared to hear the answers for.







I have stored memories that I have never once shared with any one because of how badly they hurt me. I try not to carry the repercussions around with me. I try not to worry my future self by sharing the past with my present myself.








I've always been a collector,
of wine corks,
grocery lists,
small cut outs from magazines,
of sparse compliments you give in passing,
I hold on to every one and still wonder if you think I'm pretty.
I'm still trying to figure out
why I don't accept them in the moment,
how to.










Words come as easily as sleep these days,
usually not at all.
I try to quiet my breath and stop the sniffles so that you don't worry about me, mostly unsuccessfully.
I am always curious as to why sometimes, you'd rather not know what troubles my mind.
Don't ask, don't tell.










I'll let you quietly love, if that's the language you know.











Do you check up on me like you do with her?
Search for my name,
hear my name
with the same ring to it.
I know I said earlier that it's getting easier to deal with the fact that you still have this looming ******* love for her but you know what, it's not.
Not at all.









Sometimes I feel like I'm seventy three seconds away from exploding, disintegrating, littering the world with my broken promises,
the reminder of my failure to survive the pressure.









But don't feel bad.
and don't ask, I won't tell.
I'll let you love silently, if that's the language you know.

I loved her because she made me a morning person; we'd wake up and make peanut butter banana toast and have days to spend together before night fell.
I love him because he makes sleeping in until noon feel productive, his soft sleepy breath like an oxygen tank, and when he pulls me close, I no longer feel the freezing air around me. My blanket of yellow and blue flowers isn't nearly as warm as his precious hands, the tapestry he covered the window with blocks the wrong source...
I love him because even at noon, when the sun is directly overhead, beaming its brightest and fighting to be the center of attention, he makes darkness feel like heaven and I swear I could sleep forever.

You used to crave me like the drag of your last cigarette and with the passion of the sharp razor drawing blood from your hips and thighs.
I'm a smart girl but I'm not that wise.
You need something good for you and I'm not good enough.
You want something bad for you and I'm not bad enough.
I'm still the faint tobacco smell that still gives you headaches.
I'm the dull fishing hook in your top drawer that just won't suffice.
I never wanted to be your addiction, I wanted to be your salvation.
Neither worked out very nice.

cmon
tell me how you really feel
tell me you don't think of me like you used to
tell me you finally see how people get sick of me
tell me you're tired of resting your arm beneath my neck
tell me you're tired of being tired together
tell me again how happy someone else could make you
tell me you hate my ****** rhythm and shaky voice
tell me all of my paintings look like ****
tell me I don't mean **** to you
tell me my words mean nothing anymore
tell me my words mean nothing
please tell me I mean nothing

Do you know how badly I wanted to sing you a lullaby with my body on that restless Wednesday morning, when it seemed that sleep was impossible for your tired mind?
To lightly and slowly kiss down your torso, to softly hum against you, hypnotizing your heart to decelerate and your breath to deepen and eyes grow heavy in hopes of dreaming.
But I didn't.
Not because of the fear of rejection, I'm past that.
Just the avoidance of it.

Maybe it wasn't the drugs, or the red headed devil dancing on your spine that convinced you I was no good.
Maybe it was just my delivery, the way desperation spilled out of my ears, a little too dedicated to understanding, that made me seem less delicate.
I saw it coming, it was just a matter of time until desolation sunk in again and forced my aesthetic to be destruction.
There's a disconnect, sometimes, the sound waves don't hit eardrums quite right.
And sometimes, they're just a little too loud.
It's okay to turn the volume down.
But the music doesn't cease just because it's softer.
And it doesn't any hurt less just because it happens more often.

If only besos could fuel this old Pontiac
Then again,
Even then I'd probably still run out of gas